catch 22
by thumbtacks
Summary: Sometimes, tragedy skips a generation. Yoshimori x Tokine, Sumiko x Tokio, Shigemori x Tokiko


Summary: Sometimes, tragedy skips a generation.  
Pairings: Sumimura Shigemori x Yukimura Tokiko Yukimura Tokio x Sumimura Sumiko Sumimura Yoshimori x Yukimura Tokine  
Fear The: Melodrama and pathetic attempt at something eloquent.  
Last edited on 19th May 2010

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_.21 – catch-22 –_

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"It's not that simple, Yoshimori." His grandfather intones, arms crossed and gaze a million miles away.

Shigemori wants him to understand. They can't just veer off the path of hatred and resentment they have for so long paved.

_This cycle stretches off into eternity._ _What makes you think you can stop it?_

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.1-decay-

Nestled against a gnarled, ancient branch, Tokiko jests, "C'mon, Shigemori. Are you that weak?"

Beneath his fingertips the veins splay out, but it might as well have been a pillar of polished bone.

He was not weak. He ignores how his scraped skin stings and scales the tree trunk with a new vigor.

He will wipe that smug look off her "Erp." With a thud, he lands on the hard earth, seething as he rubs his now sore bum.

She shimmies down from the tree, extends her hand and smiles coyly, "Need a hand?"

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The Ayakashi call out from the shadows, yellow eyes narrowed in slits, incisors glinting in the moonlight. They are savoring this moment, biding their time and amassing their power.

Those with tongues lick their lips with glee, the others, with only a body of spikes, and a thousand legs -glistening knives jutting out at all angles- eye them hungrily.

Their eyes glow and their tongues loll and this is a nightmare parade.

A demon rasps from the shadows, "Tonight, Karasumori falls."

He know not whose blood is on his hands, his, hers or the demons, grimly, he concludes it a mix of the three.

He has long since discarded his Tenketsu. He supports her with one arm and forms Kekkai with the other. It's three against a thousand and the odds point to only one possible eventuality. The clock is ticking.

"The Urakai will be here soon. Take her and get out of here, Sumimura-brat, scram."

They exchange one determined look and this is the closest to a valediction they will ever get and the only one they will ever need.

Shigemori takes her in his arms and runs.

He has always been weaker than her. He has known this since he was five, but he will carry her till he is just gnawed skin and scrapped bone, will protect her till his dying breath.

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Muscle memory and adrenaline fills his veins, while desperation fuels his drive; his bones ache and his vision is clouding, but dammit, he's not going to let it end like this.

He is half a mile out when the clouds eclipse the moon. Half a mile out when he hears their calls ring high in the air.

Blood trickles into his eye, he sees half the world in red. Shigemori does not turn back, he has lost all reason to do so.

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He spends the next three weeks by her bedside. The hospital staff knows him as the spiky-haired, ill-tempered young man who haunts ward number 606. Shigemori comes and goes, does not dare to hope or dream, just stands over her comatose form day after day after day.

Sometimes he grits his teeth as he stares at the linoleum floor. Sometimes he sits on the edge of her bed and talks about ghosts of their past and the goings-on in his life: of conquests and defeats and humiliations.

He leaves a distance between sentences and likes to imagine a biting remark, a high, lilting laugh.

(Sometimes, he dares not even enter, just sinks to the floor outside her door.)

Today, his hand hovers over her features, just short of contact. Numbly, he takes everything in: the gaunt cheeks and pale skin, the slow rise and fall of her chest that's the only proof she's even alive.

He retracts a trembling hand and takes a step back. Gritting his teeth, he states: gruff, pointedly, "What are you looking at?"

Behind her vantage point, the startled nurse jolts and scurries away.

He's grown accustomed to the steady drip of the IV, to the soft pitter-patter of the nurses' footsteps, but no amount of time can get him used to the sight of her on the hospital bed.

Shigemori ruffles his hair and exhales, long, deep and tired. .

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They don't know where it all began. But this is how it falls apart.

Her expression is pained, her tone harsh, "You left him there to die."

_You abandoned your comrade._ _You coward._ _You traitor (:to your name and honor and duty as a Kekkaishi)._

Shigemori averts his gaze and digs his fingers so deep into his palm blood wells to the surface.

It isn't supposed to be like this. The hero's supposed to come in, save the day and get the girl.

He refuses to regret this, and pretends not to see the tears.

Her footsteps echo in his mind and wound more than words ever could.

He does not pursue.

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_It is easier this way_, they tell themselves, as the memories haunt and the old wounds ache; alone in the dead of night where even the demons have retreated.

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They are old now.

Old, cold and far too bitter.

The distance between them has been a slow spiral of denial and despair.

Insults fly, blows are exchanged and they are starting to understand.

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.2– capitulate –

"The Art of War?" She looks up from her book, raises an eyebrow, then fixes him with a deadpanned stare.

He grins and proffers an outstretched hand, "I'm Tokio."

She weighs the merits of associating herself with someone like him, with his bright eyes, careless grin and mop of mousy hair.

"Sumimura Sumiko." She snaps the book shut and walks away, sighing inwardly at the footsteps trailing in her wake.

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"Hey!"

She has leant to recognize that voice anywhere, can now associate it with migraines, stress and a never-ending barrage of questions.

"Wait! I've got you something!"

Her gait, poised and even, turns into a sort of desperate dash.

"Dammit, slow down!"

She does not falter in her retreat: takes them down to the narrow streets, to the back alleys and rooftops that make up their city, forms platform of Kekkai after Kekkai and jumps higher and further away from him.

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Tokio is running out of options. A small, persistent voice at the back of his head that screams of self-preservation tells him to stop, to turn back and let this go. Tokio has never been good at taking direction.

On the edge of the roof he swallows (: his fear and his doubts) and grins as he leaps. Tokio has always been a fool.

He pivots his body forward and stretches his hand out but falls inches short of contact and for a small eternity he contemplates the notions of death.

It's a lie, he thinks, nothing flashes through your head when you're about to die. Just a sensory overload and the pavement approaching at breakneck speed.

Basically, he'll just be this splattered mix of bones, blood and meat on the tarmac, and well, this is not how he wanted to go at all.

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…Its quiet. Too quiet.

She knows she should just ignore this, just walk away from this smiling fool with his hopeless dreams and foolish ideals, maybe then he will leave her alone.

And where will that leave them?

She knows their parents harbor a gaping wound that will not heal. She knows she will live to regret this.

Regardless, she exhales and spins on her heel. It's a knee-jerk response and in a split second her eyes widen and her hand moves involuntarily and she utters-

"Ketsu."

"You suicidal idiot! What were you thinking? Why didn't you use your Kekkai?"

Twenty-two seconds ago Tokio was a ruler's length from death, but now, sprawled on top of her Kekkai, his trademark grin is already in place.

"I knew you'd come get me."

She massages her temples in exasperation, "You know you're pathetic right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Oh. Here, before I forget." He rummages in his backpack and pulls out a thin red book.

The pages have been yellowed with time and use, she eyes the lone caricature of a bear clutching the string of a wayward balloon with something akin to curiosity.

"The Tao of Pooh?"

"Just thought you could unwind a little. I mean…sheesh we're only sixteen and people have been talking. Apparently you've been born with the mentality of a forty year old dude."

She fumes. "I'm leaving."

"What? No. Wait!"

He lunges and collides face-first with an invisible wall.

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"I've…I've been a fool." He laughs, and it comes out as a choked wheeze.

She does not reply, merely rushes to his side after dispatching the Ayakashi. She takes everything in: the broken body, the fatal wounds. She has already lost him.

He's drowning in his own fluids and the girl in her (: beneath the jaded woman, Kekkaishi, prodigy) is crying and falling apart; because for once she is helpless; struck dumb and terrified, completely and utterly terrified with no idea of what to do.

In her mind she screams no-no-no-no-no. Don't die. Don't leave me. Outwardly, she presses a trembling hand to his cold, clammy cheek.

"Take me back, Sumiko." He rasps, "There's nothing more you can do."

Its not supposed to end like this. They were supposed to go old, grey, and bitter.

"Please."

And the sound that escapes her throat is neither a scream nor a sob.

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She stops at the entrance to his house and commands her Shikigami to carry him the rest of the way in.

He doesn't thank her, doesn't say he's sorry for leaving her ( these things are understood), just smiles.

And this is exactly how he wants to be remembered: the happy fool, even to the end. Though all heads have either turned their back on him or are dipped in mourning.

Sumiko takes a deep breath, steadies her pulse and blinks away the liquid stinging her eyes. They are not tears, she tells herself. There are no tears. And unerringly, she slides her mask back in place.

Her tone is calm, cool, composed. "I came too late."

Tokiko's expression resembles a deer caught in the headlights, of one reliving a nightmare.

"Do not expect me to thank you."

Sumiko does not flinch as the door slams shut in her face.

The silence that follows speaks of a resentment that has been etched into her veins, into the long, winding scars adorning her skin, into the ghosts that still linger in the aftermath.

Tokiko tends to her son (the bleeding, broken body of a boy that was never meant to shoulder this burden), Sumiko walks way, and Tokio slips quietly into the shadows.

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"_What do you want to do when you grow up?"_

_He speaks with an eagerness that can only be described as childlike enthusiasm. "I want to see the world, do all those crazy things, meet all sorts of people." His eyes are shining and his grin is wide._

_It's only in moments like this are they allowed to be young._

_That's impossible, she thinks. They are Kekkaishi and they can never stray too far from their land._ _(Here they live. Here they will die.)_

"_Sorry, got carried away," he rubs the back of his neck and gives a small, apologetic smile,"So what about you? "_

_Live precariously?_

"…_Maybe I'll join you."_

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She doesn't go home that night. Doesn't return to her husband, her boys or her nice warm bed. For just one night she leaves behind the Sumimura name and walks, wanders, haunts the empty streets of a braking night.

That night she entertains the ideas of could-haves and what-ifs and wishes she could dream like him. That night she throws away the last vestige of the girl in her and cradles the memory of a boy who smiled too much and scarred too fast and died far too young.

The skies are burning, the blood has long since dried on her clothes, and the tears just won't come.

She will break in front of nobody else.

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.3 – ambrosia –

Yoshimori dreams in monochrome. He sees the world in black and white, in all the different shades of grey. In his dream, he's being pushed aside, protected, saved. In his dream, her blood is streaking across his vision, staining the grounds of Karasumori.

Yoshimori wakes in cold sweat: heart palpitating and afraid. Impossibly, unfathomably afraid.

He runs down creaky, wooden steps and rubs and rubs furiously at his eyes, but the tears just won't stop coming. He stumbles over his feet, tumbles down the flight of stairs, lands in a crumpled heap.

He ignores the pain from scrapped skin and gets up, keeps on running, down the hall and out the door.

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Decked in pajamas he stands outside her window: the lone, tiptoeing figure of a boy perched atop his imaginary barrier.

He peers into her room, at the lithe girl beneath the sheets, and tells himself she's still alive, still alright. That everything's okay.

She looks far too fragile, so unlike the Tokine he knows, who is always three steps ahead of him. She shifts in her sleep, turns to one side and exposes a neat, bandaged hand. Yoshimori presses his palm to her window, watches as the glass starts to fog over, and swears this will be the last time.

The last wound she has to bear, the last burden she carries alone.

Tokine stirs in her sleep, her eyelids fluttering ever so slightly, and Yoshimori's Kekkai gives way beneath him.

It has been three days since the incident, and Yoshimori is tired of being saved.

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He comes back the next day armed with a cake. (It is black and brown, crunchy and soggy at the same time, and does, in all regards, qualify as a paperweight.)

He says he's sorry. Sorry for being an idiot. Sorry that all he can do is bake her a cake. He swears, through the snot, tears and nightmares, that he will get stronger, that he'll surpass her and protect her.

His hands are shaking as he holds it, and he looks down so she can't see and blinks away the tears.

She gives a small smile as she receives it and though, she will not admit it, is happy, is proud. He is still a child in her eyes.

_Foolish boy. _ _Little brat._

She will hold him to his words.

And yes, she does, in fact, eat it. She gives half of it to Hakubi though, after all, the dead can't die twice. Well, it can, but it comes back after, so it's all good.

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"What about Kekkaishi duty?"

"Sen's got it covered. I think he owns my soul now, though."

She huffs, "You haven't changed at all, have you?"

He grins, triumphant, unabashed (proud even), and answers with a careless shake of his head.

"Now, just close your eyes and trust me."

She catches sight of the Houin on his palm and hesitates for the briefest of instances, but takes it nonetheless. His hand is rough and calloused, nothing like the one she held so many years ago.

She's still having trouble coming to terms with this. He's not the boy anymore, she keeps telling herself.

He takes her down the long, winding streets, to the narrow walkways and back alleys that make up their city.

Her steps are uneven and unsure, on more than one occasion she stumbles, but the grip on her hand is firm, and he steadies her each and every time.

She tries to draw a map in her head of where they are and where they're going, but upon failing to accomplish that, resigns to taking everything in.

She listens to the heartbeat of the city and relishes the warmth of his grip, the steady rhythm of his footsteps. _And slowly, she learns to disregard the doubts clouding her mind and allow him to lead her along._

She can tell they are at the city limits now: the wind's picked up, and the city hustle is drowned out by the of the woods. .

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"This is where it gets a little tough."

He rubs the base of his neck, and his expression is of one who hasn't entirely thought his plan through,"Just trust me, alright?"

She nods entirely on impulse.

One step in front of the other, he takes her up his flight of imaginary steps.

She gulps involuntarily, steadies her pulse, forces a smile.

She's still unsure, still doubting herself, still afraid. But he's on his own ground, always on his own ground.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall."

There's this surreality to it all, the wind in her hair, the tinge of intangibility in every footstep.

This is just about the closest they will ever get to walking on air.

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He lets go of her hand. (It dangles limply at her side and feels, to her surprise, uncomfortably empty.)

He slips his hands over her eyes, whispers into her ear, "Happy Birthday, Tokine."

His palm brushes against her cheek before he fists it at his side and she denies feeling a slight shiver run down her spine.

The city splays out before them, a concrete jungle of shimmering lights.

"Sometimes, we just need a reminder, you know? That this is what we're fighting to protect." And though his words are agonizingly earnest, his gaze isn't on their little piece of the world.

They sit on his platform under the stars, legs dangling over the edge. She tips her head back, marvels at the sea of stars, the vast expanse of darkness.

"This wasn't really my plan… It was supposed to be this awesome seven-layer cake, with truffles and everything and...and….why are you laughing?"

She's never been one for sweets. She wonders if she'll ever tell him.

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"How do we get back?"

"Erm...Err...I brought tea?"

Sometimes they rise and sometimes they fall.

Sometimes they are for themselves and sometimes they are against the world.

This is the 22nd chain in the link. The 22nd cycle down the line, with no end in sight.

And they're learning.

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This is life and love, heartbreak and tragedy and all the colors in-between that make up the palette of their existence.

This is the heartbeat of the world.

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Read the new chapters? I don't know how i feel… But Sen is always awesome!  
tunes? took others off, uh huh.  
Uhh, Kekk drabble collection soon, promise.

.1 - Sick Cycle Carousel - Lifehouse

.2 - Slow Dancing In A Burning Room - John Mayer

.3 - Cannonball - Damien Rice


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